


He Had A Job To Do

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Collars, Dirty Talk, Established Johnlock, M/M, Plot What Plot, Wet Dream, Wing Kink, sub!Sherlock, top!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-15
Updated: 2012-08-15
Packaged: 2017-11-12 04:59:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/486983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John’s back arched. “God, Sherlock—come <i>onnnnnn</i>,” John growled, drawing out the last sound in a moan and tugging sharply at Sherlock’s hair. “Put those pretty lips on me.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Had A Job To Do

**Author's Note:**

> Whoops.  
> I told my dear I'd write her a blowjob but I didn't expect it to turn into this.

Sherlock could not remember how he had gotten here.

A thumb dug into the muscles of his shoulder, blunt fingers peeled away his shirt, careful on his wings, and suddenly it didn't matter. He was aware of a heat coiled low in his stomach that seemed to spiral from between his wings and down the length of his spine to get there. He was aware of worn denim against his cheek and the waistband of red pants in his line of vision.

"That's a good boy," John's voice purred from above him, massaging gently at the back of his neck. Sherlock barely pressed back a shudder and nuzzled at John's hip. "You're going to suck me, aren't you?" John asked. Sherlock nodded demurely and pressed an openmouthed kiss to the ridge of hipbone that peeked out from John's trousers and over the edge of bright red. Pads of fingers, calloused and warm, drifted under the heavy, familiar weight of the collar around his neck and tugged it back, pressing the front of it into his neck.

Sherlock moaned softly and darted his tongue out to lick at the skin presented to him—he'd noticed John was shirtless, shoulders broad and lit softly by the evening waning sunlight pouring into the bedroom window. Sherlock could barely see the ridges of John's scar, but that didn't matter: He had a job to do.

“Do that again,” John demanded, fingers slipping out from under his collar and curling into his hair. Sherlock licked at the ridge of John’s hipbone again, and slid his hands from John’s knees to his hips. John’s head tipped back, resting against the wall, and  his fingers pressed against Sherlock’s scalp. Sherlock breathed out another quiet moan and pressed his erection against John’s leg. “Not that. You’re not to hump my leg like an animal.” John tugged his hair, but that sent sharp spikes of pleasure from his scalp straight to his cock.

Sherlock undid the button and fly of John’s trousers and pushed them down over his hips, then drew his nose along the line of John’s hard cock over the cotton of his pants. He felt himself grin when John choked in a breath and groaned a curse through his teeth. Sherlock slipped his hands underneath John’s pants and skated his palms across his hips, pressing them back into the wall to hold them steady. “You’re killing me,” John panted, tightening his grip on Sherlock’s curls. Sherlock licked over the head of John’s erection with the flat of his tongue, tasting the wet spot that had already start to form.

John’s guttural moan had Sherlock’s hips lifting, despite the taste and texture of the cotton not sitting quite right on his tongue, and John lifted a socked foot from the floor to rest against Sherlock’s hipbone. “I said no,” he said, loosening then retightening his hold on Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock lifted his hands from John’s hips and slid his pants down, then gripped John’s hips and mouthed at the side of John’s cock.

He slid his tongue over smooth skin, and John’s back arched. “God, Sherlock—come _onnnnnn_ ,” John growled, drawing out the last sound in a moan and tugging sharply at Sherlock’s hair. “Put those pretty lips on me.” Sherlock let out a breathy whine and wrapped his lips around the head, drawing his tongue over the slit at the same time and letting his eyes flutter shut at the bitter taste from the bead of precome. “Fuck, Sherlock, _fuck_.” John’s hand gripped the base of his wing suddenly, and the pressure was just as sparkly in Sherlock’s mind as the tugs to his hair.

Sherlock wrapped one of his hands around the base of John’s penis and slid his mouth down, taking as much as he could on one breath and pumping what he couldn’t. The hand on the base of his wing gave a squeeze, and the fingers in his hair trailed down over the back of his neck to curl under his collar. “Look at you, _shit_ ,” John moaned. “Sucking me off like you’ve been waiting for it for years.” Sherlock hollowed his cheeks as he pulled back. “So fucking hot. Bet you’ve been dreaming of this, haven’t you?” John jerked the collar a bit, and Sherlock couldn’t help the moan that bubbled up in his throat.

He took John even deeper into his mouth and pressed his tongue along the underside of his cock. John’s hips jerked. Sherlock gagged and had to pull back, swallowing the saliva that threatened to leak out of the corners of his mouth. “Sorry, Sherlock, oh god.” John smoothed his hair, pushing his bangs away from his forehead. Sherlock stroked John’s dick, licking at the head and wrapping his lips around it again. At the same time as he pulled his hand along the firm top ridge of Sherlock’s wing John pressed his leg up, rubbing his shin against Sherlock’s erection and sending fire sparking through his nerve endings. He moaned and sucked John as far in as he could, white dancing behind his eyelids as John echoed his moan back at him.

Sherlock jerked awake as he came harder than he had in weeks and lay, sweaty and panting and trembling, in his bed with his very-much-wing-free back pressed against John’s chest.

“What was that, Sherlock?” John mumbled sleepily, nuzzling his face into the back of Sherlock’s neck above his collar (which he really should not have fallen asleep wearing; the change more than likely caused the dream itself) and rubbing his side, unaware what had caused the trembling. “You okay?”

Sherlock nodded. “Just a bit of an odd dream. I don’t remember it,” he lied. John seemed to accept that and draped his arm back over Sherlock’s waist, fingers curling protectively into his shirt.


End file.
